Habits Of My Heart
by heythereanna
Summary: She's recently divorced from a philandering husband. He's a top surgeon with a bad track record looking for a fresh start. She may be using him to heal her broken heart, but he certainly doesn't mind.
1. Loving Her Was Red

As all good stories do, it begins at a party on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

She has no idea why she's even bothered to drag herself out of her bed as she grazes through her massive boudoir in a black silk robe, her fingertips running over high end silks, satins and lace. Some garments still have the price tag on them, masterpieces of fashion that hadn't even taken their first breath outside of the warm vanilla honey scented air of the walk in closet, the bits of paper fluttering like snowflakes on a winter morning. She's blatantly avoided all events like this for some time, and she doesn't need to go to this one either; a gala of little importance for a cause that her company donates a very small percent of its profits to for the good press it gives her. It's the Harper Avery Foundation this time, a charity that awards surgeons for their outstanding excellence in discovering new medical marvels, but even the charities are beginning to blur together. She's surprised that she pays attention to anything but the bottle of a bottle anymore, to be honest.

Her work is what keeps her occupied, what keeps her sane. Or at least, that's what her thoughts remind her of when she feels like she's lived a hundred lives. She's met all the people she needs to, smiled at every camera thrust into her face. She's drank all the concoctions that the cute and young bartenders can come up with, seen all the antics that the rich and famous get themselves into, done all the parties. Her mind has eventually learned to be cynical after all the heartbreak that she's endured through her short twenty eight years of life, forever reminding her heart that divorcees who run their own companies don't get to be girls who falls in love at a parties with men who hold only the very best of intentions.

It had once been a comforting and familiar dance to her, the posing and the smiling until her face felt as if it would shatter into a thousand jagged pieces. It had once been a waltz that she took such pleasure in performing with the utmost grace and without the smallest bit of effort. Her sashay had been her specialty - pose, smile, giggle, charm. They had written articles about how open the fabulous fashion designer had been with the press, how utterly entrancing she had been when they'd gotten their turn to spin her around the floor.

But then she had gone off and married a scarcely knowndirector that said he adored her more than life itself, and decided that this was her life now. She had given up her freedom to be on the arm of a man with the need for his dreams and aspirations to come before her own, and she had stopped dancing altogether. She had become quiet, keeping the purse strings of her life pulled tight, and the media turned it into a firestorm of rumors. It hadn't been long before she lost herself along the way and suddenly stopped putting her well being first, and eventually forgot about her lofty daydreams entirely.

She'd claim it was a business necessity if any of her friends asked why she had bothered to show up after the ordeal that she had been through in the past nine months. They would ask her how she was even standing after discovering through a misplaced love letter that her perfect husband of almost six years had been having an affair with her oldest friend in the world for two of them. How in the world could she be standing up straight when they'd been making a fool out of her for a over a third of her marriage?

But she has a new dance now, she reminds herself. A tango that's been carefully choreographed by attorney and public relation experts, where she perfects taking the high road instead of giving the verbal lashing she longs to. It's all carefully built statements and quaint smiles, but the difference is she knows who she is now - she's remembered the girl behind the red door.

Brooke Davis had never been one to sit idly by and weep for lost betrayals, to wonder what if's and bargain for an already destroyed marriage. No, that wasn't even close to what she had been groomed to become. She had been born to hold her head up high and claim whatever throne she desires.

Perhaps that's why she's debating on leaving her brownstone in the first place. She's sick of being the poor little girl just trying to keep her life together. She wants to feel alive again, feel _something_ other than anger and grief over the debacle that has been her divorce - her now-finalized divorce.

For once, her mother's insensitivity to love had played in the young woman's favor. Julian, her now ex-husband, would not receive a penny of the empire that she had amassed for herself prior to their marriage and during it, nor would he receive any spousal support from her. His mistress could now support his ridiculous fantasies that had already burned up his accounts, pay for his extravagant taste when he hadn't worked for almost four years. Brooke would no longer his meal ticket to the top, free of his utter disregard for her wants and needs, and she had declared to no longer be the buoy that Peyton Sawyer would cling to when she would feel lonely and used up. To be rid of them both had been worth every coffer she had paid her shark of a defense attorney.

The reason for going is far more personal and vengeful, to hope that Julian sees her picture in whatever magazine he reads in the morning and simply dies with guilt, that he'll think of her every time he looks down into Peyton's eyes when they make love. She wants to make him suffer, make him feel like the worthless piece of shit that he's revealed himself to be, and when her eyes see a red strapless number in the back of her closet, the question of whether or not to go is settled. She smirks to herself, pulling the dress free from its confines.

After all, just because she has to hold her head up high didn't mean that she can't get her hands a little dirty.

"Have you made a decision?"

Rachel Gattina stands in the doorway, clothed in an elegant black backless sheath gown, one of Brooke's designs. Her dear friend and chief operating officer of her company had flown back from a Clothes over Bro's runway show in Milan the moment that she'd heard about the destruction of her marriage, standing at her side through the tumultuous event that was Brooke's divorce. It had seemed fitting, considering that she had been a bridesmaid at the ostentatious event in the first place.

Only, while the other bridesmaids were saying how incredibly beautiful she had looked, Rachel had been begging her to reconsider her options. She had warned her that Julian would be the death of her, but Brooke hadn't heeded a single word. She'd walked down the aisle with a beaming smile and married the fucker, who she had been convinced would never leave her.

She had wondered sometimes if her life wouldn't be in such shambles if she had just allowed herself to get over her stubbornness and listen to Rachel. Would she be here, the head of a company with all the money in the world and still longing for something more? Would she have married some other man who didn't have such a wandering eye? Would she be a wife? A mother, even?

"Could you zip me into this?" Brooke asks without meeting her gaze, grabbing a pair of black Jimmy Choo peep toe pumps and slipping them onto her dainty feet. Her decision is subtle, the kind that just lingers in the air as she hands the hanger to Rachel, dropping her black robe to reveal the strapless black lace corset that seems to keep her together in that moment. She likes to think that it holds her heart in, protects her from anyone getting a bit too close to the feeble organ that she once hung on her sleeve without a care in the world.

She steps into the dress wordlessly, the organza folds of fabric from the bottom of the dress rustling against her skin the only sounds to be heard in the silent room. There is the soft sound of the zipper as she closes her eyes, the sensation of the fabric binding to her voluptuous curves keeping her a little more whole while she holds her shoulder length chestnut curls high from the back of the dress.

"We haven't done this…" Rachel trails off as she takes a step back, the both of them looking at the brunette's image in the nearby mirror. She stops herself, and Brooke picks up where she had left off.

"Since the wedding." Brooke murmurs as she brushes a stray lock of hair from her vision, her hands busying themselves with her hair as she pulls it into a low bun, messy yet sophisticated, before wrapping her arms around herself as if to protect her from the shooting pain that generally fills her veins when she speaks of her failed relationship.

But there's no pain, now. Her marriage is simply over, no longer a weight looming in the shadows waiting to drop. She's ready to move on, she convinces herself as she looks over at Rachel, smiling softly.

If only that were the truth.

The redhead pauses, her arms wrapping around Brooke's upper body as she returns the smile. "Your smile is a sight for sore eyes, Davis. Even if it is faker than Peyton's tits." Her face turns serious for a moment, her expression falling. "If it's too much, if you can't do it and you need to leave, just tell me. We'll come right back and pull out Gone With The Wind and swoon over Rhett Butler."

Brooke nods silently as she pulls away from Rachel, grabbing her black clutch from a nearby end table before moving out of the closet. No other words need to be said, no thank you's or sentiments of adoration. They both know that's not what Brooke needs right now.

Why?

Because Brooke Davis had been raised to claim whatever throne she could possibly want, and she'd look fabulous doing it.

\- x - x - x - x - x - x -

 _"I don't even know why you bothered to bring me to this. This event is seriously tragic, Jackson, and it's not like if we really need to stay this long. We could be at the club right now. My secretary could've done this."_

Jackson Avery sits at the bar, listening to his mentor drone on and on about how the gala that his family's foundation is throwing for _their_ medical practice and their global surgical initiative is "tragic", as he so calls it.

He and his partners at the practice had been friends since he'd been mentored by them both during his residency at Seattle Grace Hospital. Where Mark Sloan was callous and impulsive, Calliope Torres was smooth and calculated – one of them always making up for the other's shortcomings. They made up two sides of the same inseparable coin since they'd opened up a private practice together here, shortly after her girlfriend had taken off to Africa and left her behind. They'd taken Jackson, then Mark's protege, with them when he'd begged to keep learning from him. After all, the farm girl he was in love with had gone off and married some paramedic, he didn't have a reason in the world to stay in Seattle. Jackson had far more ties in New York, anyway - the Harper Avery Foundation being one of them.

He agrees with Mark, that the event is something that he normally would find as boring as watching an intern fuck up an appendectomy. But he stays regardless. Perhaps it's because their practice has just been named number one in the city after their pro-bono work with Syrian refugees that had been gassed, that this is actually his family foundation's party to continue raising funds for their efforts. Maybe it's the unnaturally cool autumn night, the full moon and the expensive cognac all mixing together. Or maybe it's because he really doesn't have anywhere else to go.

His life is a never ending string of calculated business decisions and careless personal moves, beginning from his decision take the MCATS without his family knowing and eventually get his medical degree. He'd gone to Mercy West to get a fresh start from his family, and then the merger had dropped him right in the middle of Seattle Grace. He'd mentored under Mark because it was what could bring in billables, not because it had been what he loved - at least, not at first. He'd eventually grown to love the complications of it, the delicacies of burns and the pure skill it took to create nerve graphs. Plastics became his life, and then he'd gone and slept with the virgin at his boards, with his best friend.

And then, April failed her boards, and it all went to shit.

After April had gotten engaged to the paramedic sent to her from Jesus Christ himself, Jackson had gone completely down the rabbit hole, losing twenty pounds after adapting a diet that had consisted of nothing but scotch and the occasional cheeseburger. It had been Mark that had dragged him to New York and gotten him the hell away from Seattle in an effort to help him move on, years after it had happened. It had helped for the most part, kept them out of a plane crash that had nearly killed a number of their attending surgeons. Callie had even fallen for a cute little red head resident, Penny, and was talking about settling down. Mark had remained his normal playboy self, bouncing from intern to intern a result of his little indiscretion with Addison Shepherd, and Jackson was fine with doing the same thanks to April and her little virginal mind games. Fine with sleeping with nurses and drug reps, fine with being a managing partner of his practice, fine with going out with Mark because there's always another gorgeous brunette who wants to live on the edge with a surgeon.

Or is he?

"Jackson, are you even listening to me?"

Mark's tone of annoyance and disdain rouses him from his musings, tipping back the glass of cognac and downing the rest of his drink. He shakes his head, irritated out of his mind by the intolerable whining. "Honestly, no. I stopped listening around the secretary part, because we don't have secretaries, so shut the fuck up and drink. It's what you do best anyway."

His tone is firm, the sound of a man long forced to sit back finally standing up. It's whom he's become in the last few years, the man that no longer allows himself to be walked all over by those that he thinks deserves happiness more. Too much has been taken from him, too much he's willingly given up. No more, he'd said after he watched the love of his life walk back to another man that could give her what she wanted, no more would he be the man that gave everything up for all the right reasons. He would fight for things, he had told himself when he'd come back to New York. He would be the man that only got what he deserved, but what he wanted as well.

"Well aren't you just a blast tonight." Mark snidely replies, surveying the room once more before signaling to the bartender that they both are in need of another drink – desperately on his part. "Maybe I should go hang by Callie and her little ginger snap."

Jackson sighs as he turns, facing the party with his back to the bar. There's a sea of people in front of him, each person swimming along on their due course, the socialites smiling their ridiculously plastic grins and the businessman acting as if they own the room. It's as if the local boarding schools built them all up to be these hollow and horrific human beings, cutting them with cookie molds and filing them to their respective universities like they were the ovens that would finish the job they started. Charming intellectuals, they were, all aspiring to run the city of Manhattan with no drive to actually do so, relegated to a life of splendor and luxury by their massive trust funds and their family names.

"What are we doing here, Mark?" He murmurs, his eyes still milling through the pastel colored dresses and jet black tuxedos. "What the fuck are we still doing here?"

Mark smirks as the bartender sets their drinks down. "Didn't I just ask you that?" He drawls, his body hunched over the bar. "Come on, let's go to that new club on Fifth and find some nice halfway drunk grad school girls to play around with. I'll even let you pick first."

"I'm not talking about here at this party." Jackson snaps as he turns back to the bar, snatching up his drink and downing it before slamming the glass down on the cherry wood with finality. "What are we doing _here_ , as in why the fuck are we still doing the same fucking things that we did five years ago when we got here?"

"Warn me next time you're planning on being philosophical, then." His mentor's tone is tart, to the point as he looks at him through the mirror behind the bar. "You're one of the best plastic surgeon on the East Coast, Jackson. We run a multi million dollar practice. I don't remember doing anything like that when you were fetching me bone dry cappuccinos and begging for surgeries, do you?"

"I remember thinking that by the time I was thirty, I'd be married to April and doing shit that mattered. Do you remember that?"

"I remember that April married the paramedic, Jackie, and that it's just the two of us. Don't you fucking preach to me about how we haven't moved on when I'm…"

Mark's words drone on in bitter resentment as he rants on about his poor life and how awful it had turned out - forgetting that he's bedding supermodels and saving lives - but Jackson stops listening as soon as something catches his eye.

It doesn't even catch his eye, really; it just wanders by, seemingly unnoticed by everyone else in the room because they don't quite know yet what they're supposed to be looking at. They're looking at each other, at their fake smiles and their materialistic desires, but he's not looking at them any more.

 _Red_. The color grabs him before he can even attempt to stop himself from looking, blurring out everything else around it as he allows himself to fall down a rabbit hole that has long been forgotten, long been buried by cynicism and heartache, long been covered up by a desperation to figure out who he is. He isn't the lost little boy anymore, no longer biding his time as he waits for someone to figure out what they want from him. He's free, the kind of free that deserves the ringing of church bells and the firing of rifles. The color of seduction, of love, of anger drags him in, and Jackson can't stop looking because he's suddenly in paradise and nothing else matters.

Why?

Because red is no longer just a color. It's a feeling, an incredibly undescribable sensation.

It's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

Green eyes meet the red folds of fabric of a woman's dress, a woman so radiant that he feels like she's haunting him as she moves through the dredges of people that surround her. Her hair, shoulder length and formed into loose and effortless curls, is the color of cocoa, her skin reminding him of vanilla. He wonders for a moment, just for a split second, what she tastes like, if every inch of her skin would be disguised as melting vanilla ice cream layered with honey. His gaze catches green glimmered with gold, an intoxicating shade of hazel. Across the room from this woman, a speechless Jackson Avery feels his blackened heart jackhammer in his chest, and he can't even begin to explain why.

"….and you were the one who let your red headed vixen go in the first place, so you can just-"

"I'll see you later." Jackson manages to mutter out and he stars to walk away, unable to listen to the ramblings of his bitter best friend as he leaves his drink. He's unprepared, he's completely and utterly out of his league in more ways than one, but none of that matters as he makes his way through the crowd. He watches the wearer of the red dress the entire way, seeing her escape out onto the front of the balcony in something that could only be described as a graceful frenzy.

All he knows is that if he doesn't at least try to talk this woman, he'll regret it for the rest of his life, and there's already enough regret for ten lives in his soul. Jackson uncharacteristically pushes through the last few yards of people, makes it to the door, and sees her through the glass.

She's in pain, the kind of pain where it takes your soul and it rips it in two just because it can. There's no movement in her face, just closed eyes and deep breaths, words on her lips that she only hears. Jackson hesitates as he reaches for the door handle, debating on what he was about to do.

It's what he does, really. He hesitates.

Having April or staying her best friend. To reach for the stars, or to keep himself comfortable.

But what in the hell has being comfortable ever gotten him?

He opens the door to the balcony and slips outside, standing in front of the glass as she turns to look at him, her expression still as blank as before.

"Do you have a light?"

\- x - x - x - x - x - x -

"She looks positively wretched."

Brooke stands frozen in the middle of the party, clutching her purse with a dangerous ferocity. They had been there an hour or so, maybe even two, and so far it had been fine for the most part. She had milled about with a glass of champagne in her hand, rubbed elbows with some of the wealthiest people in New York, possibly even found a few clients for her new men's line. Not to mention, she had been complimented on her dress so many times that she was so grateful for her own talents. The trumpet silhouette, the beautiful folds at the bottom where it fanned out – she feels like a mermaid, a gorgeous sex goddess of a mermaid that floated through the party effortlessly. Brooke feels as if she's been walking through the clouds, beaming so bright that she actually had felt normal.

And then, _she_ had appeared.

Peyton Sawyer stands directly across the room in a sleek white dress, all pale skin and bones. She's changed her hair since they've last seen each other, stringy blonde curls now chemically straightened in a severe ultra modern bob that reminds her of her failed attempt their senior year at straight hair. Her lips are coated in a dark red lipstick, eyes smudged with smoky black eyeliner and a diamond wreath hanging around her neck. Brooke can't help but survey that she looks more mature, but more importantly she looks she's lost the touch of innocent youth that she had with mascara running down her cheeks from fake tears and horridly crafted lies.

It's been nine months since they'd seen each other, nine long and seeming to. never end months since she'd found out that her husband was sleeping with Peyton, history cruelly repeating itself. She had cried, Brooke remembers, she had wept and pleaded for her to forgive her once again. Her past with Lucas Scott and Peyton Sawyer had flashed before her very eyes as the blonde had begged forgiveness from her for the third time in their lives.

 _"I don't know what hurts worse, you and Lucas sneaking behind my back or you lying about it to my face."  
_  
 _"The last time? Do you hear yourself right now?! The last time you tried to steal my boyfriend? He's on the door, Peyton! He's on the damn door under me!"_

 _"Don't you dare! Don't you dare twist my words around to make yourself feel like you are not a backstabbing two face bitch, Peyton! Because you are, and you_ know _it!"  
_  
Brooke had just stood there the last time, when Peyton had begged her for mercy, to not cut her out of her life, to forgive her. She had just stood there wordlessly as she told her that she would give Julian up, that it was just a horrible mistake and that their friendship meant so much more. She had turned on her heel and walked away while the blonde had screamed her lungs out apologizing to her. It had only been when Peyton had grabbed her arm, attempting to pull her back to the conversation, that Brooke had truly uttered the words that would change her marriage forever.

 _"You want my husband? You can have the bastard, but don't you ever fucking come near me again or I'll put you through a goddamn wall, you disgusting tramp. That's not a threat, by the way. That's a promise."  
_  
"Be fair." Brooke says quietly, downing her drink. "She looks halfway decent."

Rachel shakes her head, blown away by the fact that she's trying to take the high road. "No, she doesn't. She's the woman you caught having an affair with your husband, a woman who then tried to get him to rip you apart in a divorce so she could get your money. She's a fucking leech, Brooke, and she's had her teeth in you for so long that there should be a goddamn scar."

"Rachel, that's enough." She hisses as she grabs another glass of champagne and desperately tosses it back, hoping that it'll take the edge off of her nerves. "She won't come over here, she knows better. Or at least she should."

"When has Peyton Sawyer ever done what she should do? When?" Rachel snaps back, her steeled gaze focused on the blonde across the room. "When she was fucking your boyfriend, or when she was fucking your husband?"

"She will." Brooke promises, more to herself than anything else. Perhaps it's not just the haircut that's grown up, she prays. Maybe her childhood now ex-friend had listened and wouldn't come anywhere near her, as she'd told her to. Certainly not at a public even, she wouldn't do it. The source of Brooke's marriage collapsing had never once been revealed to the press, to her stockholders, not anyone outside of the attorneys, the slut and Rachel. After all, she had a brand to protect, a business. Peyton had to at least understand that. Surely with Red Bedroom Records, the label that Brooke had financed at the urges of the blonde - and against the wishes of her mother - she'll grasp that right now, Brooke needs silence. It's at that moment that she's really beginning to hate how right Victoria Davis can be, as she's realizing she'll now need to shed her stocks in the record label as well.

But when their eyes meet and as brown hits hazel, Peyton's eyes don't drop in utter shame, and she realizes that she's fucking doomed.

Brooke's face shows no emotion, the polar temperature of her mood apparent. It's all in her gaze, the unbridled rage that had yet to be unleashed. She had held it all in during the divorce, kept herself from saying one ugly thing about her husband and his mistress. She had stopped herself from badmouthing him in the press for her own survival, but it's all still there, lingering in the dark when she's not paying attention. Her crystal flute of Dom Perignon begins to shake in her hand, the liquid nearly spilling over until Rachel grabs the glass from her hand.

"Just breathe, Brooke." Rachel whispers into her ear, trying to pull her away. "Come on. Let's grab a bottle of Cristal and go home. I know they've got it hidden behind the bar, I used to screw one of the surgical partners."

Brooke watches as the blonde fidgets in her gaze, watches Peyton shift uncomfortably as her own fists ball up in rage. It's all there, every ounce of pain and hurt that she'd felt since she found out about their secret relationship. How many times had Julian told her that she was insane, that she was just imagining things, that absolutely nothing was going on. How could anyone compare to her, his beautiful wife?

Peyton did, apparently. Peyton Sawyer, who took everything from her, seemed to always have the higher ground on her. She'd taken Lucas, taken Julian. Not a single person but Rachel, Haley and her older brother were left, and the woman standing before her had been the one to do it.

She doesn't even say a word as Peyton takes a step towards her, just shakily holds up her hand like a makeshift stop sign and shakes her head before turning on her heel towards the nearest balcony. "I need some air." Brooke gasps out before clamoring through the crowd, trying to remain as poised and graceful as possible.

It's like parting the Red Sea, every person in front of her easily moving just to get a glance at her. She smiles, she says hello, and she even compliments someone on her dress – a Clothes Over Bro's Couture design. It's all to get her to the glass door on the side of the party, and when she finally gets to it, it's her lifeline.

Brooke rips open the door and goes flying out onto the balcony, the bitter cold of the fall air hitting her like a freight train. She wordlessly cries out as her body hits the railing, her hands holding onto the railing for dear life. She looks down for a moment, the people walking below like ants. If only Peyton were down there. Then she'd be praying for a magnifying glass to fry her up with.

"This is not your fault." She whispers to herself, gasping for air. "None of this is your fault, he's a cheating bastard and there was nothing that you could possibly do about it. This was his mistake." Brooke manages to get out, squeezing her eyes shut in order to keep the tears from falling. She's finally able to control her external emotions as she heaves a deep breath in, finally catching it. The ice water settles in her veins once more, her blood ceasing its relentless boil, and she opens her eyes to the world before her.

Brooke tears her purse open wide, grabbing her emergency stash of cigarettes as she opens the holder and pulls one out, only to realize that she had forgotten to bring a lighter with her.

The sound of the door shutting causes her to turn, expecting it to be Peyton. Her hand instinctively relax, as if ready to throw her off the balcony at a moment's notice.

Instead, her eyes focus on the man that enters the balcony, a welcomed surprise.

He's effortlessly handsome, the kind of handsome that Brooke would've once found to excite her, found to thrill her. Buzzed black hair, caramel skin, gorgeous green eyes, perfect build. He would've been a conquest to satisfy her overwhelming commitment issues, a man that she would've seen as a potential suitor. But now, he's just another man, a man that could destroy her just like every other man had tried to do.

He's just another man, but maybe he could be of some use, looking over the man's shoulder to see Peyton coming her way. Her eyes land on him, focus on him, protecting herself from the woman behind him by keeping her eyes on him.

\- x - x - x - x - x - x -

 _"Do you have a light?"  
_  
Her voice fills the empty space between them, and for the first time in as long as he can remember, Jackson feels nervous. He takes a few steps forward, reaching into his tuxedo jacket and pulling out his lighter. It had been a gift from his grandfather on his eighteenth birthday, he remembers with a soft smile, recalling the words that his once best friend had said when he'd given it to him. _"Trust me, Jackie boy, it'll be useful when you're trying to get someone to go home with you."_ Harper Avery had said with a smirk and a light shove. He made a mental note to thank him the next time he saw his grandfather, pain in the ass as he may be.

He flicks it open as she leans in with the cigarette between her plump rouge lips, only pulling it away after the end of it burns a bright orange, the light causing a certain glow around the woman's features. From this close, he can feel her breath on his hands, the frosty autumn New York air suddenly not nearly as chilly as it was a few short moments before.

Jackson can see her now, truly and openly see her for the beauty that she is. Her soft features, as stunning as they are, have a certain cold temperature to them, hardened by pain and heartache. And her eyes, green and gold flecked, have a severity to them that's all too familiar. He knows that look, he's had it time and time again, and so he says the only thing that comes to mind.

"He's an idiot."

The woman kinks an eyebrow, looking over at him with nothing short of confusion, but her face remains the same cold and hard expression. "And who exactly is the idiot in this situation, considering you are the only "he" out here at this very moment." She says with a certain ice to her melodic voice, her lips wrapping around the cigarette and pulling in a deep drag of smoke.

Jackson laughs, his eyes never leaving her weathered stare. She's fiery, the sort of spiteful that can only be described as mean, and by some measure she reminds him of someone - Cristina Yang. Maybe he'd get to drunkenly make out with her too.

"I may be an idiot for standing outside during October in New York, but whoever made you so damn upset is an absolute jackass." He says with the sort of dashing smile reminiscent of his boyish charm, something that usually works on the women he desires.

But why he had thought that it was work on her is beyond him, as she isn't even fazed. She simply turns her head away from him and stares out into the New York skyline, her hands grasping the iron railing of the balcony. It doesn't even appear as if she's heard him, and if she has she just doesn't care. But the faintest smile, a ghost of it, appears upon her lips, and she looks even sadder than she had been moments before.

"I was in love with a man like you, once." She murmurs so softly that he can scarcely hear her, wistfulness in her fixed gaze as it skitters from building to building, rooftop to rooftop. Jackson wonders if she's searching for something, something that she hasn't even learned yet. She looks like she's lived a thousand lives, wisdom seeping from her pores like rivers of memories yet to be untangled, and for a moment he wonders if she came out here to jump off the ledge.

"Gorgeous eyes, hopeful and telling me that I was going to change the world someday. He's married to an editor now, a nice woman who cushioned his ego and gave him children. I loved him so much that I actually designed her wedding dress." There's a bitter smile that follows, as if she's just used acid for mouthwash, her hand slowly moving to her chest and resting above her heart. It's a sort of shield, he thinks, and as she turns to face him, her resolve is steeled in her eyes. They settle back upon him like daggers.

"My ex-husband was charming like you, too. Right up until he left me for my best friend."

He nods, unable to find the words as he looks at her, seeing the chink in the red armor that she dons so stunningly. "I was in love with a woman like you once. Multiple women, actually. I tend to get around." Jackson counters with a sigh as he leans against the railing, watching intently as she continues to pull in desperate breaths on the rapidly disappearing cigarette. "Beautiful, controlled, used their words as weapons. The city's full of them, you know, and they're all my type." He daringly takes the cigarette from her fingers, taking a drag of his own before handing it back to her. "She's a surgeon now, a bad ass trauma surgeon in Seattle. I didn't sew her wedding dress, but she definitely fucked me up good before she married a paramedic with _faith_."

She's surprised, to say the least, and even Jackson can admit how incredulous it sounds because he lived it all. Or maybe it's the blatant honesty that appalls her. It's a rare commodity in New York, after all.

"You think that I'm controlling?" She asks as she pulls in another drag, handing it to him.

Jackson smiles as he takes it. The surgeon in him is screaming for doing this, but it feels like freedom on a night like this and so he heaves in a little more of the cancer stick.

"Controlled. There's a difference, I promise." He pulls in the last breath of noxious smoke before flicking it off of the balcony, his eyes remaining focused on her. "So I've served my purpose, lit cigarette and all. Think just maybe, you can crack the hold you've got and tell me your name?"

She smirks as she steps away, looking at him over her shoulder. Her curls frame her face so perfectly in the moonlight that he wonders what he'll do if she won't tell him, knowing that he can't let this be the last time he gets to see her.

"Are you sure you want to know that?" The woman responds, seeming to be scrutinizing his every feature. "I mean, I've clearly shown that I'm damaged goods. Obviously something's wrong with me if I've said all of this to a stranger. A handsome stranger, but a stranger none the less."

"Maybe I like damaged, maybe damaged good are my thing." Jackson says with a laugh, taking a few steps towards her. "You said it yourself, we're strangers. We ought to get to know each other better." He holds out his hand to her, as if begging her to take a chance on him, to give him a shot at showing her that he's not just some stranger on a balcony. "I'm Jackson Avery...and this is my party that I've been avoiding to talk to the most gorgeous woman in the whole place. Who thinks I'm handsome, which - clearly - I am."

She shakes her head, and a real laugh escapes her perfect lips. She pauses for a split second, and their gazes lock together in a stare so controlling that it could've stopped time. _Take a chance, gorgeous. Take a chance on me._ Jackson thinks to himself, standing there like the fool for her that he is with his hand extended.

It's like she's read his thoughts as her fragile hand slips into his, grasping it gently. She looks at him warily, as if he'll snap her arm in two just to watch it break. "Brooke Davis." She says with that same mistrust in her eyes, and they remain there for a moment, his hand holding hers and the intensity of the stare so strong that he can feel it coursing through his veins. "It was a pleasure to be a stranger with you, Dr. Avery, but I do have to get back to _your_ party. I'm a very big donor to your foundation, or so my accountant tells me."

"I'm sure they're completely lost without you. We thank you for your hefty donation." Jackson says with a warm grin, debating on pulling a Mark Sloan and kissing her hand, but deciding against it when she releases his grasp. "Can I see you again?" He asks her forwardly, but he doesn't care. A woman like Brooke Davis came around once in a lifetime, and he isn't about to let her slip through his fingers.

"Haven't you had enough of me, yet?" Brooke teases with a smile, a genuine smile from what he can see, and she's gone as quick as she'd blown in, retreating back to the party he's inclined to go back to as well

Jackson finally exhales, feeling like he's been holding his breath since he saw her across the room. "Somehow, I don't think anyone ever has." He murmurs to himself, leaning back against the railing as he watches her move through the crowd once more. He wonders if he'll ever see her again or if this will just be the serendipitous night that he met the incredible Brooke Davis.

And then, just for a second, she looks back at him with a smirk, and it's all he needs to know that this is _not_ just a one time thing, and he can't remember the last time he was this excited about seeing woman he'd become interested in more than once.

\- x - x - x - x - x - x -

Brooke manages to get back through the crowd to Rachel, who waits expectantly by the entrance. Her best friend looks pissed, but not at her, not even by a long shot. How could she be mad at her, after all? She had just needed some air, just needed a moment to breathe.

And then Jackson had been there. Green eyes, boyishly playful charm, and an optimism that she hadn't even known existed anymore. He's a new face, a fresh, youthful and handsome face with no previous judgments, with no previous assertions. It's the beautiful thing about New York, the fact that you could walk out onto the street and meet someone that you had never even seen before. It still amazes Brooke after all this time in the city, having once been so used to seeing the same people with the same ideas and the same assumptions.

 _"Maybe I like damaged, maybe damaged goods are my thing."_

His words ring in her head as she moves through the room, a certain confidence in her step. Their short conversation has given her that, a sensation that spreads through her body like wildfire. She can still feel the heat of his gaze, the warmth of his smile, the empathy in his words. He had been honest, every word that came out of his mouth the utter truth, and it's so refreshing that she can scarcely believe he's real. A real Prince Charming in the flesh, she's discovered, a man that had actually brought out a smile, a real honest to goodness Brooke Davis smile.

 _"This…is my party that I've been avoiding to talk to the most gorgeous woman in the whole place."  
_  
"You good?" Rachel asks her as she walks up, reaching out to her and taking her hand. Her tone is nothing short of supportive, keeping to the promise that she had made when she came home to protect her from it all.

Brooke nods, smiling weakly as she allows herself to be lead out of the building and into the parking lot. She doesn't speak, doesn't even say a single word. She just moves when Rachel moves, no more no less. She feels light on her feet, having been untouched by Peyton and her insane guilt. She had been able to get through the night without creating a total scene, even though she had seen the woman that had once again attempted to ruin her life. She feels strong, but still the cold-hearted woman that she had come in as is still there, holding her composure together and keeping her weapons close at hand.

"What were even doing out there?" Rachel asks as they make their way to their town car. "I mean it was a great place for you to land, but the railing seemed a little low."

"I wasn't looking for somewhere to jump, if that's what you're asking." Brooke sighs in exasperation as she slides into the backseat of the card, looking out the passenger side window up at the balcony where she had once been. She can't see Jackson anymore, but maybe he's still up there, thinking of her as she's thinking of him.

 _"I'm sure that they're completely lost without you."_

Rachel gazes at her quizzically. "Then what were you doing out there?"

She smiles as she keeps her gaze up at the balcony. "I was introducing myself to the host."


	2. Take It Out On Me

It's been six weeks. Forty two days. One thousand and eight hours, and all Jackson has thought of is Brooke Davis.

Jackson's been going out of his mind since the night that he saw her on the balcony, trying to find out as much as he could about her. He knows all the things that the general consensus knows, that at the age of seventeen Brooke Davis had founded what would be a multi million fashion company in a small town apartment in Tree Hill, North Carolina. When she had graduated a year later, she'd turned an online clothing shop into the household name that it had become, all on her own. It had only been when she'd created a couture line that her mother, Victoria Davis, became involved - and then, it had exploded.

He knows that her middle name is Penelope, and that she has an older brother from her father's first marriage that she adores. He knows that her now ex-husband is a washed up film director from Los Angeles, and that she had been rumored to have been involved with writer Lucas Scott in her youth. He knows that while many have claim to have dated her, she's notoriously private and rarely ever finds herself splashed across the tabloids.

But that hasn't been enough. Jackson's a crazed teenage girl over her, trying to dig up as much as he can because he needs to find an in, some way to get himself in the same room with her. And so he asks his practice's public relations head, Marvin "Mouth" McFadden, to make it his prerogative to bump into Brooke's assistant, Millicent Huxtable, at lunch every day to get the best gossip that New York has to offer on the elusive Miss Brooke Davis.

By the end of the second week, when Mouth announces that he's met the woman of his dreams in Millie, he finds out that Brooke's favorite take out is a little cash only Thai place in the middle of Brooklyn, the spicier the better. Jackson eats there every day for a week hoping to catch her, but no luck. He winds up with a nasty case of heartburn, but zero sight of Brooke Davis.

It's during the third lunch date with Milicent that Mouth learns that she's had a standing dinner reservation at Babbo, the best Italian eatery on the Upper East Side, every Sunday evening with one Rachel Gattina since she moved to the city. Jackson calls every day for a week in an attempt to make a reservation for the table beside hers. He's pleasantly informed by the hostess that Mario Batali shuts down the restaurant for when she comes in because he alone cooks for them due to _"Miss Davis's exquisite palette being the only that he truly trusts"_.

He finds out that she'll be renting out Melba's, one of the top Southern cooking joints in Harlem, for the night after the launch of her Spring line because after New York Spring Fashion Week all she wants is a decent bucket of fried chicken and he respects her even more for it - but that's four months away, and he doesn't have that kind of time on his hands with her.

Six weeks is painful enough. He can't even fathom what sixteen will be like, but he's pretty sure it would be similar to being waterboarded. Pure and utter torture.

Mouth finds out her favorites on his first official dinner date with Millie, when he confesses that he's pumping her for info for his boss - only because he genuinely adores her. Millie agrees to help because she finds Mouth charming, and Jackson finally gets access to the woman who knows more about Brooke than her own family. Truffles from Li-Lac Chocolates in the West Village, an exquisite bottle of red wine, white orchids and purple hydrangeas from a small shop by Central Park, and black and white movies are a few of her favorite things - or so he's told by his love struck co-worker. Jackson sends her a massive floral arrangement every day for another week with her favorites, but doesn't get a single response.

Jackson knows every single fact that he possibly can about Brooke, and he's hungry for more. He's obsessed with her, enraptured by her, completely and utterly consumed by the memory of her in that red dress. He'd spent only a few short moments with her, minutes that she could've shared with anyone else, and now he's practically aching to see her again.

But when he gets an invitation to the Casablanca casino night fundraiser for St. Jude's Children Research Hospital, it seems that divine intervention has taken over.

It's one of the high calendar social events of the winter season, and the practice had been considering buying a table, which would cost somewhere around fifteen grand. It's a good way to garner attention for their practice, considering how much work Alex does with them to begin with. And when Jackson had scrolled through the website after getting his invitation one month ago and found out that one Brooke Davis would be presented with an award for her incredible generosity and compassion...

He'd bought three from his personal account and never looked back.

He's dressed to the nines in a jet black tux - a Clothes For Bro's design, specifically ordered two weeks before for this event - fixing his classic bow tie as he walks into the ballroom of The Plaza. His hair and beard are cut close to the skin in his normalhandsome fashion, his usual confident swagger apparent as he walks down the steps to the main floor. His tables are filled with big name surgeons and celebrity clients with even bigger checkbooks, his top spenders from around the country and practice's residents that are looking to move up.

Jackson spots Callie at the table across the ballroom, his gorgeous brunette business partner waving him over as she chats with the new quarterback for the New York Jets. Callie had arrived about an hour before him to get the lay of the land, always looking to pick up a new client or two at events like this. The athletes alone are cash cows for the firm and surgery crack for her. His confident cohort and Arizona had broken off their engagement only a few months earlier, a decision made by the latter party for her career. She's off in Africa saving malnourished children or something along the lines. Whatever it is, it had been enough to let a three year relationship slip away, and Callie hadn't been the same since she'd left her. She had thrown himself into their business, leaving Seattle Grace for good, and it had blossomed as a result. Jackson's about to walk over to their tables when he's flagged down by a perky blonde waitress calling his name.

" _Doctor_ Jackson Avery?" The young waitress says as he nods, handing him a glass of amber liquid at his response. He takes it with a raised eyebrow, and she gestures to the crowded bar behind her.

"From the woman in blue at the bar. She'd like you to join her."

Jackson's head goes on a swivel, and his eyes land on her.

Her, beautiful and fucking goddess like _her_ , leans against the bar in a pale blue dress that nearly makes him go weak in the knees. She looks like she just walked out of _Casablanca_ , the off the shoulder gown dipping into a sweetheart neckline that he gratefully appreciates. The silk fabric of the beguiling dress clings to her curves until it flows outward from her knees and pools at her feet. Her lips are coated in her signature shade of crimson - a color which he's beginning to associate with the sound of her name and the gorgeous face before him - and her dark hair is curled loosely with a white orchid tucked into the curls carefully pinned back above her ear, just like they did back in the black and white movies. She looks absolutely radiant, and Jackson is left grinning at her perfection because _she_ is requesting an audience with him.

She stands out from every person at the bar with her beauty, but this isn't where Brooke truly shines though, not for him. For Jackson, it's on a balcony in the middle of autumn in New York with the wind rippling through her hair and a bitter smile on her lips. For him, it's when she shows her true colors, scars and all, and she gives him the dose of reality that's missing from his luxuriously maintained lifestyle.

But god _damn,_ does Brooke Davis know how to make an entrance.

He can barely stop himself from running over to her, doing his very best to appear collected and calm as he saunters over to her. But really, who is he kidding? Jackson's sure that there isn't a man in the world that knows how to play hard to get when it comes to Brooke, especially since the eyes of nearly every man in the room have drifted over to the stunning woman he sidles up to at the bar.

He keeps the surge of price to himself as he sees the downfallen expression on a number of faces, smirking heavily as he finally reaches her. "Good evening, Miss Davis." Jackson's deep voice rumbles with charm as he takes her hand, pressing it to his lips. It seems fitting to act like a debonair East Coast gentleman when they're dressed to the nines and she looks like she just stepped off the silver screen.

"Doctor Avery." Brooke replies demurely, a soft smile on her lips. "I wanted to thank you for your incredibly generous donation to the foundation. I figured a drink would do the trick." She says as she raises her hand to the bartender, setting her now empty glass on the table. He's not even surprised when the kid snaps to and places another shaken, not stirred martini in front of her before answering anyone else at the bar. Brooke's the sort of woman that doesn't just attract attention, but commands it, and tonight is no exception.

Jackson sets his glass of scotch on the bar, his icy bluish green gaze focused on her. "You're very, very welcome." He says with a grin of his own. He'd have bought the whole damn ballroom if she'd asked it of him, hell he'd have bought the whole _city_ if she'd promise to keep looking at him the way that she is.

"Three tables is rather bold, don't you think? Much like sending me beautiful flowers until my office resembles a greenhouse." Brooke says with a knowing bat of her eyelashes. She sips her dry martini like the part of an elegant movie star that she's playing, her raspy tone like silk on bare skin. He's utterly entranced by her, confounded by the fact that such elegance even exists in a world as maddening as the one that they're in.

"Well, I'm a very big fan of the guest of honor. She's an exceptional woman, if you haven't heard." Jackson's grin is wide as his eyes drag up and down her figure, grazing over her body as if he's drinking it in. A warmth runs up his spine, the palpable tension between the two of them simmering in the air. His gaze finally makes it's way back to her ruby red lips, watching as they turn into a confident smirk. He realizes in that moment that looking at her is no longer just an amiable pastime.

It's an insatiable addiction.

"I suppose I don't have to tell you how incredibly beautiful you look tonight." He manages to get out as Brooke reaches out to him, her fingers smoothing out the lapel of his tuxedo jacket. Her eyes remain locked on him, as if searching for something in the strong features of his face.

"You clean up rather dashing yourself. Especially in my men's line. If I'd have known that you requested a tuxedo, I'd have made it myself." Her voice is husky, dimples protruding as she continues to smirk up at him. "Tell me, did you decide to buy the tables before or after you met me?" She asks him, her hand resting on his chest.

His heart is thundering beneath her palm, but Jackson doesn't even break a sweat. "After." He admits, boldly taking her hand and tugging her body to his own. His head dips beside her ear, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I'd be lying if I said I didn't do it all to see you again."

\- x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x -

She's intrigued by him.

Brooke doesn't quite know why she is, when she's been so swamped with her company's new men's line that she's barely got time to pay attention to anyone. She's re-acclimating herself to what it's like to chase her own dreams rather than sitting in the jet wash of her ex-husband's, and she's felt more alive in the last six weeks than she has in the entire nine months of her divorce proceedings. Jackson Avery had been the right man at the right time, and as a result, she feels that he deserves a reward.

Not to mention the seven bouquets of purple hydrangeas and white orchids - her favorites, no less - that are currently residing in her office are exceptionally beautiful. He gets brownie points for stalking her through his assistant, too.

As he dips down beside her face, looking like a modern day Paul Newman with his sharp bow tie and perfectly tailored tuxedo - a Clothes over Bro's design, none the less - Brooke can't even help herself as she allows the warmth of his body radiate so close to hers. Perhaps it's the three drinks she's had, or the bespoke Oscar De La Renta dress that fits her like a dream come true and the Christian Louboutin Crystal Queen Embellished sandal stilettos that make her feel like Carrie Bradshaw, or maybe it's because she's in a gambling mood with all the sounds of a casino rumbling around her. Whatever her motivation is, Brooke doesn't move a muscle, allowing herself to be closer to a man that she barely knows.

 _"I'd be lying if I said I didn't do it all to see you again."_

Clearly, he's intrigued by her too.

The music starts playing again, the big band and strings picking up a slow tune that makes her heart ache a little. It's so beautiful that Brooke feels like the world around her should be in shades of ebony and ivory, that every word should be so clearly enunciated that it just sound oh so golden age. It allows her to be someone else for a night, someone other than Brooke Davis, CEO and founder of Clothes Over Bro's. Tonight, she's just another girl at a bar in a pretty dress, and Jackson is just another man in a dashing tuxedo trying his best to figure her out.

If only the rest of her life were that simple.

Brooke immediately misses the warmth of his breath against her neck as her green eyed counterpart pulls back, her body practically melting from the heat in his gaze. She knows this look, the desire and want in his eyes all apparent, and she revels in it. She loves the way that Jackson looks at her, and in the topaz light of his eyes she becomes alive again.

"I'm flattered." She murmurs, grasping her drink and taking a sip of it to steel her nerves. She can't remember the last time she did this, flirted with someone that wasn't Julian and she hopes that the liquid courage will do her some good. It all feels so foreign that she can scarcely admit to herself how good it feels.

Jackson's charm on full display as he sets his drink down, holding out his hand to her. "Flattered enough to join me for a dance?" He asks her with that familiar sparkle in his gaze.

Brooke smiles up at him, all too tempted to take him up on his invitation. He's handsome with a sweeping charm that she can't help but be attracted to, forward but not pushy, and successful to boot. And considering she'd poured her heart out to him on a balcony the last time they saw each other, it's the least she can do. Jackson Avery is a catch by any woman's standards. He's damn dangerous to her very private way of life, and she's the first to admit it - considering that he'd been spotted out every other weekend with a new model for the last few years.

She's just about to take his hand when the chairman of the foundation's board silences the band and approaches the podium, beginning to introduce himself to the lively audience. Brooke laughs lightly, tipping her glass towards the announcer. "Looks like I'm saved by the bell."

Jackson smirks. "You're a wanted woman tonight, Miss Davis. Save me a dance when you're done being showered with attention."

"It may take a while." She counters, an amused smile playing on her lips.

He boldly leans in, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek that spikes her heart rate. "I'll wait all night if I have to." Jackson murmurs into her ear, and as he walks away she knows that it's not just a statement.

It's a promise.

Brooke barely catches her breath as the presenter begins to list out the various projects that St. Jude's was currently working on, downing the rest of her martini. She'd barely had time to set her glass down before Rachel appeared at her side, decked out in a chic A-line emerald green blazer and matching pleated skirt.

"Sorry that I'm late, traffic was a bitch from the men's shoot and Alexander was an absolute pain. That man is more anal than you are. What did I miss?" Rachel huffs out, futzing with her sleek chignon hairstyle before handing Brooke her note cards for her acceptance speech. Her chief operating officer, a title which the brunette had surprised many three years ago by giving it to a former model with a checkered past, looks like she's walked straight off a 1940's red carpet, elegant as ever.

"I bumped into Jackson Avery again." Brooke murmurs nonchalantly, doing her best to stay under the redhead's radar.

It's no use, and she knows that from the second Rachel's eyebrow kinks up in interest. They've known each other for far to long for the redhead to ignore a raised flag like that. "You mean _hot plastic surgeon from the balcony that you had me internet stalk_ Jackson Avery? The _same_ Jackson Avery who's sent you flowers every day for the past week and runs a multi million dollar charity?" She says with a grin, nudging Brooke suggestively with her hip.

The brunette doesn't have time to tartly respond before the spotlight lands on her, a mega watt smile instantly appearing on her lips as the presenter gleefully announces, "...ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to our our dear friend and recipient of this year's Founder's Award, Miss Brooke Davis!"

Brooke sashays up to the front of the ballroom as the audience gives her a standing ovation, ever so poised as she makes her way to the front stage. She takes her award from the presenter with a light kiss to his cheek, standing in front of the Upper East Side of Manhattan's rich and famous as she takes to the microphone. She had always been confident while speaking to a crowd, and tonight is no different as she lights up the room with the Stepford wife smile she plasters on her face like a paper mache mask.

"Good evening, and thank you all so much for your sensational generosity tonight. As a cause near and dear to my heart..."

After thanking everyone for their wonderful donations and for lavishly talking up St. Jude's, Brooke steps off of the podium and back to her table, which was conveniently located one over from Jackson's - she can't help but wonder if he'd greased the palms of the planning committee to get him close to her, and she feels a rush of pride. Again, she's sure that Millie's got something to do with all of this, but she lets herself enjoy it none the less.

She could feel his eyes on her as she moved through the crowd, smiling and graciously thanking everyone for coming as she tries to navigate through the crowd to get to him. It isn't until she nearly trips over the new quarterback for the New York Jets and accidentally winds up at the wrong table that she feels that all too familiar emotion of anger sweep through her.

Because her ex-husband, a man who once upon a time had promised her heaven and earth as long as she was his, is directly in front of her for the first time since she signed their divorce papers.

Her mind flashes back to their wedding. She can still see him standing across from her at the church. They'd gotten married in her hometown of Tree Hill as an ode to the Davis name, with all of her childhood friends and family around them as they pledged their love for each other. Her older brother, Jake, had walked her down the aisle to him, kissed her cheek goodbye and given them his blessing. She can hear the rushing of her wedding dress hem against the aisle and it feels like the air has been sucked out of her lungs as she frantically tries to figure out an escape route, his vows echoing in her ears.

 _"Brooke, before I met you I thought my world had everything I needed to be happy. I had nothing else to compare it to, then you walked into my life and everything changed."_

Brooke's eyes go wide with distress as she feels her emotions begin bubbling up, sees the man that she despises so desperately, and she can't breathe. She can't breathe, she can't talk, she can't move, she can't even think. All she can do is freeze, every muscle in her body tightening in response to the sight of Julian Baker's boyishly good looks and cocky demeanor. It used to be stopping because he made her world pause on a dime, but now it's out of complete revulsion.

 _"I realized how empty my world was without you in it, and my old life was no longer capable of making me happy… not without you."_

She can feel the bile rising in her throat, the bitter taste of vomit burning her like a brand as he starts to move towards her. He looks more menacing since the divorce, his face a little thinner and his eyes cold and lifeless. But then again, arguing over a conference table for months on end over the most trivial of items could do that to a person, and Brooke can't help but feel a surge of pride rush through her because she knows that she had won. She's still standing, and if she could get through a nine month long divorce process to get rid of him, she can get through this. Or at least, she hopes she can get through this.

 _"I love everything about you, Brooke. I love the way you challenged me like no one ever has. I love the way you look at me like no one ever has, and I love the way you love me like no one ever has._ _I can't imagine spending my life without you, and if you say "yes" to me in a few minutes, I won't have to."_

She wants to spin out of control, to pick up one of the steak knives within reaching distance and cut out his heart so he can feel what his past actions had done to her. But as she tightly smiles and tries not to show any vulnerability to the people around her, she restrains her homicidal urges.

"What are you doing here?" Brooke pleasantly demands through a fake smile, waving to a nearby reporter that she knows would pick up this story if she didn't get rid of her ex-husband fast enough. She's just barely holding it together as Julian finally stumbles all the way up to her.

"I thought I'd take the chance to see my wife since she won't take my calls. You look beautiful, Mrs. Baker." Julian says with a sloppy grin. He goes as far as to run his fingers down her bare arm, and she debates on breaking his hand because after five months of self defense classes, she can. "I'm sure Little Miss Firecrotch is here as well, hm? Never more than a few steps away, just like she was in our marriage."

 _"You look beautiful, by the way."_

She can smell the vodka on him as he leans in and kisses her cheek, and she visibly flinches. She's not sure if it's from the intonation of her married name or from the kiss, but she wants to punch him in the throat regardless.

Brooke shrugs him off like a bad habit, rolling her eyes. "You're drunk so I'll forgive you for not hearing the presenter, but your _ex_ -wife's name is Brooke _Davis._ Thanks to your little indiscretion I'm divorced from not only you, but your storybook name as well." Her voice is as cold as ice as she takes a step back to guard herself.

She hates him, absolutely abhors that he even exists in this world, and she can't get away from him fast enough as she turns away and heads towards Rachel.

Brooke doesn't get more than two feet before she feels his hand wrap around her wrist, tugging her into his chest forcefully. She nearly cries out in the agony of it all, quickly remembering where she is and biting her tongue. He smells like bad decisions, the scent of cheap alcohol perpetrating through the air as she recoils from him. "We are in _public_ , Julian. Get your mangy paws off of me." She hisses through her frozen ladylike smile, trying her best to rip her arm out of his hands without the masses noticing.

As drunk as he is, Julian is still twice as strong as her, holding her there firmly as his intoxicated grin turns into a sneer of disgust. "You don't get to walk away from me, I walk away from _you_. That's how this works, Brookie." He slurs out hatefully.

She bites down hard on her lower lip. She's sure that he'll think it's to keep merciless sobs at bay, when in reality it's to stop herself from spitting in his face. She's praying that this will be it, that the humiliation will finally end and that she'll be able to walk away from him.

But he doesn't stop. He just sways a little from side to side, his lack of balance apparent. "I sleep with Peyton, I walk away, and _you_ get all the money!"

Brooke painfully wrenches her hand from him and takes a few steps backwards, her skin where he's touched her turning bright red as her forgery of a smile drops and she stops playing nice. "You're making a fool out of yourself. Go home to your _whore_ and stay the hell away from me, or I'll slap a restraining order on you so fast that your little head will spin." She snaps, her eyes skating between Julian, who's slowly advancing towards her, and Rachel. The redhead has finally noticed what's going on after flirting with some blonde hunk across the room and is making for her position across the ballroom.

But the horrified look in Rachel's eyes shows that she can't get there fast enough with the amount of people in the room. Not without making a scene, anyway, and they both know that their company cannot afford the bad press right now.

Brooke braces herself for the worst, like a ship preparing for the perfect storm, when a deep voice breaks the tension between the two of them.

"I'm sorry I'm late, sweetheart. Traffic was an absolute nightmare from the hospital, my surgery ran late and some drunk asshole hit a cab and it's a mess. Did your speech go okay?"

Like something out of a dream, Jackson appears at her side, dropping his head down and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. He's smiling brightly, his arm wrapping around her waist like the date he's clearly pretending to be. His attention is solely focused on her, and Brooke is left completely and utterly speechless from the unbelievably kind gesture.

Perhaps chivalry isn't dead after all.

Brooke finally snaps back to reality and realizes the opportunity that he's giving her. With the handsome doctor at her side, she can get out of her present situation and to somewhere that she can actually breathe, as well as away from the prying eyes of the media.

She's so happy with him that she could kiss him silly right then and there until the room spins and everyone else fades away - as if she didn't want to already.

Brooke grins from ear to ear, her hands resting on his muscular chest as her attention is diverted from Julian. It's a real smile, a true one that made her feel warm all to way down into her fractured soul, the one that makes her feel like the world isn't such an awful place after all. "It went great. How was your surgery on..." She trails off, and he's quick to pick up where she's left off with her little white lie.

"The burn victim from the 10th Avenue house fire? It went well, we should be seeing progress with him next week." Jackson completes the deception as he leans in, his lips so dangerously close to hers that Brooke can't help but let her eyes slip shut in pure bliss as she thanks god for New York men with savior complexes. "You look absolutely gorgeous, Brooke Davis."

\- x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x -

Jackson has no idea what he's doing as he holds the brunette against his muscular frame, his arm tightening around her waist for good measure as she smiles up at him like the Cheshire Cat. He'll tell her that he had to because the spotlight had made her look luminous in her dress, effortlessly graceful and damn near angelic. He'll tell her that she's radiant, and he'd felt like he was blessed just to be in the same room as her as she had thanked the board directors and given the audience her best red carpet smile. He'll tell her every line in the book when he tries to explain why he'd jumped in between Brooke and her ex-husband, but for the moment he's committed to being her date, even if it's just for show. He's protecting her from the asshole in front of her, and he couldn't help but jump in when he'd seen the petrified look on her face, like someone had just punched her in the stomach.

But the way she's looking at him now, like he's the knight that's just charged the castle and saved her when she had been screaming from her ivory tower for help, is enough for him not to _care_ how he's going to explain it.

"Excuse me, but who the flying _fuck_ are you?" Her ex-husband's drunken voice shatters the tension between the two of them as he puts his hand on Jackson's shoulder, attempting to turn him around.

But the six foot two doctor that runs six miles every morning is more than capable of taking care of himself, shrugging off Julian's hand before deciding that this is the moment that somebody puts this guy in his place. He knows that Brooke doesn't need protecting, but he feels more than obligated to be the one to do it. "I'm sorry, we haven't been introduced. Jackson Avery, Brooke's boyfriend." He says nonchalantly, turning to look at Julian as he smirks proudly.

"I'm Julian Baker, her _husband_." The stumbling drunk says with his syllables in slow motion, reaching for Brooke once more. "And I'll be taking her home now, thank you very much."

" _Ex-_ husband. And I'll be going nowhere with you." Brooke seethes from his side, and he can feel her slide in closer to his protective embrace. "Jackson and I met at a party in the city last month. He's a plastic surgeon, one of the top on the East Coast in fact, and we just...clicked." She looks up at him with a smile.

Jackson grins back down at her, leaning in and pressing a kiss to the side of her head for the full effect. He can't help but feel daring, given that he now knows she's been doing her research too. "Now, if you'll excuse us, this lovely lady owes me a dance." He starts to turn Brooke away from Julian, hoping not to cause any more of a scene.

But when her ex's hand shoots out and tries to grab for her wrist to yank her out of her date's arms, all hell breaks loose.

Jackson's temper flies out control before he can stop himself, grabbing Julian by the shirt and throwing him against the nearby wall. He's so angry that he could rip the guy's head off, contemplating whether to do so because he knows from the red hand print on Brooke's arm that Julian's already put his hands on her, hands that must have grabbed her so hard that there's going to be bruises tomorrow morning. One free hand holds the drunkard up, while his other fist rears back to punch him square in the jaw. He'll have to move his surgeries a few days for his hand to rest, but right now he doesn't give a shit. He wants to see the fucker bleed.

"Jackson, _please_."

He stops when he hears Brooke's plea, his hands immediately releasing Julian. Her ex-husband stumbles forward in his drunken state, rearing up and ready to go, but Jackson stops him with one hand as he balls up the front of Julian's shirt and holds him there. "Because she somehow feels responsible for your drunk ass, I won't lay a hand on you. But I can promise you that I'll be the one that throws you out of here if you're not gone in the next five minutes. You got me?" He snarls in the man's face before dropping him to the ground.

Jackson doesn't wait for a dumbfounded answer, doesn't wait for a rebuttal that would just embarrass the man more. He just keeps his arm firmly wrapped around the curve of Brooke's hip, leading her away from the man that has caused her so much grief. "You still owe me a dance." He tries to lighten the mood, but he looks over at her and he knows that's not what she needs.

Brooke looks like her perfect sense of privacy has been shattered, like everyone in the room is watching her every move. There's a smile frozen on her lips, but her hazel eyes are pleading with him to get her out of the ballroom, and he knows exactly what she does need in that moment.

"C'mon, let's go." Jackson murmurs into her ear before walking her through the rest of the crowd.

He leads her through the building to the nearest balcony he can find, and even though it's the middle of December and it's just started snowing, Brooke bolts out the glass door to fresh air. She's gasping by the time he shuts the door behind them, her hands clutching the frozen railing. Brooke keeps trying to pull in a frozen breath as she fumbles through her purse and finds her pack of cigarettes. Jackson throws his suit jacket onto her shoulders before she can turn him down, grabbing his lighter out of his pocket and quickly lighting the cigarette that she brings to her trembling lips. They're a mirror image of their first meeting, and it's one he doesn't mind being a part of one bit.

"Inhale." He says firmly as she looks at him with glassy eyes, and he's not sure if the shaking is from the cold weather or the trauma that she's just endured.

Brooke breathes in deeply, her eyes slipping closed as she pulls back from the cigarette and exhales the nicotine laced smoke into the air. "Thank you." She whispers, and she looks at him with a tentative smile. She's stopped shaking and she looks almost fragile in the moonlight. "You've fulfilled your knight in shining armor quota for the night - again. I know you need to be back in there, probably recovering press from the fist fight you've just had over me." She says with the same spitfire she'd had the last time they were like this, and he wonders if it's because she's so terrified to be vulnerable.

He wraps his arm around her waist, shaking his head. "I don't have anywhere I need to be right now."

\- x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x -

He's unfairly perfect.

Jackson Avery isn't just a handsome face with a nice stock portfolio and a Fifth Avenue penthouse apartment. He's unbelievably caring, the kind of man that knows when to intercede on a situation and when to let a woman handle herself. He's the guy that nearly just killed her ex-husband just for touching her, because the thought of Brooke being hurt is somehow that unimaginable to him. He's charming and chivalrous and knows what she needs even though he's only known her for five minutes, and that makes it all the more difficult to not want him as much as she does.

She tries to rationalize not wanting Jackson as they stand out on the balcony. She's just getting out of an incredibly messy divorce. She's too focused on her work, on the new men's line on top of her normal spring fashion line and the stack of couture designs that have been requested by various celebrities. Her ex-husband clearly still isn't out of the picture and never knows when to stay the fuck away from her. She's not emotionally or physically ready to let someone into her chaotic world again. The paparazzi will rip him to shreds after tonight's debacle.

But as he stands beside her in the freezing near midnight air and wraps his tuxedo jacket around her shivering shoulders, she can't even process any of them. She's thought of all these reasons why he shouldn't be in her life, why he should run in the opposite direction, but he's still there. As he stands beside her, his arm slowly winding around her waist once more, all she can think of is how perfect he is, and how it might just be her downfall.

Brooke puffs on her cigarette like it's the very source of her courage, the nicotine keeping the tears at bay. It's a terrible habit and she knows it, but it's the only thing that she can do to numb the pain without making an absolute fool out of herself. She wants to scream, wants to howl at the top of her lungs and collapse and sob her eyes out. She wants to drink herself into oblivion, until her body finally gives up and lets her sleep through the night without seeing her ex-husband's face with the whore he'd left her for.

But that would mean that Julian had won and had taken something from her. As much as he has destroyed her over the last few months, she would never admit that out loud, not a chance. She wouldn't make herself out to be the fool again, not after the world of pain that he's put her through.

She keeps waiting for him to say something, anything at all. But he doesn't. Jackson just stands at her side, his arm casually draped along her lower back and his eyes focused solely on her. She can't get a read on him, can't figure out what his endgame is, and maybe that's what confounds her the most.

"So you're my boyfriend, huh?" She smiles, bemused at the idea of it all. "You're pretty smooth when you want to be, in case you were wondering."

"Damsels in distress are my specialty." Jackson says with a grin as he releases her waist, leaning his back to the cold railing and folding his arms across his chest. It forces her to meet his gaze, to see the wide eyed innocence and sparkle in his eyes that makes her wistful and nostalgic of a certain writer in her past. She's always been a sucker for eyes as handsome as his.

"I'm an East Coast blue blood, it's what we do best." He confidently smirks.

Brooke laughs, a real and honest laugh that comes from her belly and sounds like a melody that's been missing from her life. She shakes her head, wondering what part of the East Coast men like Jackson Avery popped out of, because she hasn't seen a true gentleman in a very long time. "What can I say, I'm a Southern belle. Being damsels is what we're built for. That and debutante balls." She says carelessly, almost bitterly.

When she had been younger, she'd always thought that she would be her own white knight. Now, she feels like the princess trapped in too high a tower with no one coming to rescue her from her greatest enemy - herself.

Silence slips in between them once more as the snow begins to heavy, thick snowflakes catching on the tips of her eyelashes and the curls of her hair. It's positively beautiful, the quiet air and the fact that there is no need for words in that moment. They simply watch the snow together as the faint sounds of the big band travelling in the air rhythmically, and she even goes as far as humming to the Louis Armstrong tune that they start to play.

"I'm sorry I made a scene, but he's a prick and he shouldn't have done what he did." Jackson says quietly from his position beside her. His concern doesn't go unnoticed as he reaches out and takes her arm, studying the skin rubbed raw from Julian's grasp. "It's going to bruise, just so you know. I don't have any medical miracles for that."

Tears spark up into her eyes, the first that she's let bubble up in so long that they feel like conspirators against her cold and hardened mask. She doesn't meet his gaze, her fingers weaving through his as she nods. She knows that she does. After years and years of dealing with her husband that had seemed so earnest and good when they had first gotten married, she knows without a shadow of a doubt that she deserves more than Julian Paul Baker.

She just doesn't have it in her to wear her heart on her sleeve like she had before fairy tale weddings became nightmare divorces.

"We really need to stop meeting like this." Brooke tries to joke, shaking her head as she tries to wipe at the unshed tears. "Damaged goods are only cute for so long."

Jackson shakes his head, reaching out to her and wiping one of the stray tears that had gotten away from her with his thumb. "You look perfect to me." He murmurs softly, and he realizes how close he is to her. His hand cups her cheek, caressing her soft skin gently.

Brooke meets his gaze, her hand still holding onto his as she remains there in his arms. He's just about to kiss her, leaning down slowly, before she whispers, "I think I'm ready to go back in."

She's lying, of course. She's sure he can almost see her contemplate whether or not to jump off the balcony rather than go back into a ballroom with her pig of an ex-husband. Regardless, she turns out of his arms and begins to release his hand from hers.

But Jackson catches her right away, tugging her back into his arms and forcing her to look up at him. Brooke's hazel eyes tell a story that her words don't, whisper to him how desperately she needs to be held and touched and to feel like she's more than a ghost of a woman she used to be. Her free hand rests on his chest, every inch of her pulled against him and his body practically hums with desire from the sensation. Even in the bitter cold, she's as warm as a July afternoon on a white sandy beach and it sends chills down his spine.

"You don't have to do this, you know." Jackson murmurs. "You don't have to hide what you're feeling from me. There's no cameras, no flashing lights. It's just you and me, if you need something, all you have to do is say it."

Brooke laughs sardonically, shaking her head as she pushes against him to no avail. He won't let her go, not when he feels like she's so close to actually telling him the truth instead of the tailor made response that he's almost sure that her public relations agent had set up for her. Her eyes narrow, and he sees the familiar rage held within her gaze. Her voice is like brimstone as she begins to yell in his face. "Why, because you can read me so well? I've known you for a minute, _less_ than a minute and you think that you _know_ me? You don't know anything ab-"

"Jesus Christ, would you shut up for just a minute?" Jackson growls, and his arms tighten around her voluptuous frame as he holds her to his chest. She's so damn infuriating when she's starting fires all around her in hopes of keeping him away. He wishes that she knew it won't work, that whatever he feels for her isn't just get in her pants.

She doesn't have time to respond before he leans in and captures her lips in a heated kiss. She fights him with her ineffectual fists, slamming them against his brick wall of a chest. But he keeps kissing her, each movement of his lips feverish and passionate, kisses her so hard that he's worried he might bruise her - but certainly not worried enough to stop when she gives into him and leans into him.

It's staggeringly extraordinary and so natural it scares him as his tongue runs along her bottom lip as if to ask for entrance, before Brooke deepens the embrace and wraps her arms around him. She tastes like cherries, juicy and plump cherry lips that move against his deliciously as he pushes the tuxedo jacket off of her shoulders to run his hands along the exposed skin. His arms tighten around her because they aren't close enough for his liking, because he wants her naked and trembling beneath him in his king size bed, and the soft moan that she breathes into the kiss nearly sends him over the edge right then and there.

Jackson's breathless when he just barely pulls away from her, green eyes skating over the gentle curves of her features as he smiles down at her. "That's better." He murmurs.

Her lips curl up into a satisfied smile, and he swears it's the most relaxed he's seen her all night. "Maybe damaged goods are your thing after all." Brooke whispers, her hand reaching up and grazing his jawline. She gets on the tips of her toes and pulls him down into her lips for a ravenous kiss, and his arms wind tighter around her once more.

He doesn't care that his lips are probably turning blue or that it's below freezing temperatures. He doesn't care that he's missing out on the chance to sign however many potential patients are downstairs. He doesn't even care that he can't feel his fingers as he leans back into her lips, because Brooke Davis is worth every single second he's had to wait to see her.

\- x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x -

A few days pass.

Jackson had been a gentleman, despite Brooke's very best intentions to get him up one of The Plaza's rooms and continue their escapade, and had calmly escorted her back down to Rachel before remaining at her side for the duration of the event. He had been the perfect man, the perfect date, and Julian hadn't come near her for the rest of the evening. Not to mention, he's one _hell_ of a good kisser.

She's slammed with her spring line, which starts production in two weeks, and she's heard that he's busy courting the newest hot shot surgeon on the circuit, a neurosurgeon that could bring top billing clients to his practice. Brooke is pleasantly surprised at the bouquet of flowers that arrive at her office that morning - the eighth he's given her thus far - with a box of her favorite truffles and a note tucked within it.

 _We really should keeping meeting like that. Dinner tomorrow night?_

Brooke sighs like a schoolgirl getting a valentine from her first crush, her cheeks blooming a light shade of pink. She bites her lips as she holds the card against her chest, swaying back and forth happily. She's so incredibly blissed out on the memory of Jackson's lips that she doesn't even notice Rachel slip into the room.

"I see that Doctor Avery has struck again." The redhead taunts with a smirk, popping a truffle into her mouth before seating herself on the nearby chaise lounge and kicking off her heels. "I get to deal with the playboys of the Upper East Side, and you get to make out with the prodigal golden boy. The fuck, slut? You couldn't throw a nice surgeon my way or something? I can't _stand_ the football players."

To be honest, Rachel is thrilled to see her like this. It's much better than the pathetic role of scorned ex-wife that Brooke's been playing at and if Jackson is the cause, more power to him.

Brooke rolls her eyes as she sets the vase on the nearby table, which is now incredibly crowded with flowers. "Because you've got such a hard on for commitment?" She smirks as she sits down in the opposing lounge chair. "You like your men like you like your meat: fresh, rare, and deliciously young."

She giggles as Rachel throws a pillow her, sticking her tongue out at her best friend childishly before flinging it back at her. They actually seem normal, happy, and Brooke immediately feels a sense of guilt for what she's about to throw her best friend's way.

"So, I need you not to freak out if I tell you something." Brooke sighs, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. "Because I'm seriously enjoying the cheery Rachel over broody Rachel."

Rachel raises an eyebrow. "Is it about Julian? Or the spring line?"

"No."

She sighs, immediately relieved as she throws the pillow back at Brooke. "Then why are you all scrunched up? You'll wind up with crow's feet to go with that fat ass of yours, and then-"

"The wedding invitation came today." The brunette blurts out, thrusting the clearly opened invitation towards Rachel before biting down on her lower lip.

It's a topic that they don't discuss anymore, the fact that Rachel had dated Brooke's older brother for nearly five years when they were all in New York, bringing the company onto the up and up. Her brother had been their attorney once he had graduated from Columbia, Rachel had been on public relations, and Brooke had been the creative designer that the entire town was raving about. They were a dream team with the world at their fingertips when Jake had asked her to marry him the night of Brooke's wedding with his grandmere's antique emerald engagement ring, a prospect which Rachel had happily accepted. She had been happy, truly and incredibly happy.

Happy, right up until Jake had decided to move to a law firm in North Carolina and Rachel had refused to leave the company because of her loyalty to Brooke.

Happy, until she'd woken up to an empty apartment three days later, and hadn't heard a word from him since.

He'd gone off and met some high school English teacher from Iowa two years ago that was a little too nice for her taste, a little too perfect. She sang show tunes and made cupcakes and wanted lots and lots of babies that Brooke's older brother was more than willing to give her - or at least, that was how Rachel imagined her. They'd gotten engaged rather quickly, something that the red head had sneered at when she had found out, but had secretly cried about for weeks on end.

All the emotions bubble up to the surface as Rachel takes the invitation with the force of a hurricane, ripping the rest of the envelope open.

 _Victoria and Theodore Davis cordially request the pleasure of your company_

 _at the wedding of their eldest son, Jacob Theodore Davis_

 _to the lovely Haley James on Saturday, the twelfth of April_

 _at the Rose Garden of The Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina_

Brooke can see the anger in Rachel's eyes before she gets to the end of it, the utter rage that connects with her face as her hands begin to tremble. She waits for the three little words that will rip the redhead to pieces.

"It's a family tradition, Raye. It's not li-"

"Like he did it intentionally to hurt me? Because he suddenly _forgot where he proposed to me_?!"

One of the floral arrangements that Jackson has sent over goes flying across the room, crashing into the nearby wall and shattering into a thousand little pieces, and the wordless yell of anger is the last thing that slips from Rachel's lips before she collapses back down into the couch that she had been sitting on.

He isn't supposed to actually marry her, Rachel thinks to herself as she puts her head in hands and struggles to breathe. He's supposed to come back to New York and sweep her off her feet and they're supposed to get back together. Two years with another woman didn't even come within a breadth to the five years that she had shared with him. How could she, a docile school teacher, compare to the woman who had helped him study for his LSATS - and eventually the New York Bar. How could she even come close to the woman that he'd built a life with, an exceptional and passionate life?

Didn't those five years matter? Didn't _she_ fucking matter?

Brooke takes a few steps closer to her, sitting down beside her and taking her hand. The gesture is simple and understated, but it doesn't go unnoticed as Rachel grabs onto her for dear life.

The brunette tries to figure out what her friend needs as she sits at her side. A new Birkin bag? A new apartment? A new job?

No. Rachel needs Jake, and it's the one thing that she can't fix because she's never had any control over her brother, and she knows that it won't start now.

"I'm sorry about my jackass of a brother."

"I'm sorry about your slut of an ex-husband."

Rachel smirks, Brooke laughs, and for a second their wounds are healing. If only they could figure out how to make it last.

"We could burn your wedding dress. I have it somewhere at the penthouse." Brooke smirks heavily, even though the notion of destroying the lace and crepe gown that had taken almost six months to stitch by hand makes her sick to her stomach.

"You could call the surgeon." Rachel sighs, leaning back against the couch. "Don't be gun shy with him."

Brooke bites down on her lower lip. "You know me too well." She mumbles, mimicking the redhead's behavior and sinking into the plush cushions. "He's too perfect. There has to be something wrong with him, right? Something, _anything_. I mean he's a little bit of a slut, but there's got to be something more than that. It's too...right."

"Why are you looking for something to be wrong with him?"

Brooke exhales the breath that she seems to be holding in, looking up at the ceiling. "Because I married the perfect guy, and look where that got me."

Rachel tries to smile but it comes out as a bitter and self-loathing grimace. She's so angry she could scream, and she just manages to choke out his name. "Jake was perfect."

Brooke snorts, shaking her head. "Jake is not perfect. He has terrible taste in women, present company _in_ cluded. He dated Peyton for god's sake. And then there's the whole hero complex, and the need for perfection. He's not even that great when you really think about it, and I'm his sister."

If it would make Rachel feel better, Brooke would compare him to Lucifer himself and find the similarities. She knows how painful this has been for her, to watch the love of her life ride off into the sunset with a damsel that isn't her. She'd do just about anything to make it all better for her, even though she finds Haley quite nice.

Rachel looks over at her, not even a hint of a smile on her face. "He's perfect, and you know he is. Perfect enough for a cute little suburban school teacher." She looks sad, like her tough facade might shatter and let herself cry. But magically, she pulls herself together and changes the subject. "Call Jackson and get yourself laid because you're driving me up a goddamn wall."

"You really know how to sugarcoat things, don't you."

"Why do you think you pay me so much?" Rachel smirks, standing up and taking a few steps towards the door before turning on her heal and looking at her with a look that Brooke doesn't recognize. "Call him, Brooke. Call the perfect guy with the perfect life. We could use a little easy in our lives, and you're substantially lacking in that department."

With that, she's gone in a swirl of red hair and Brooke is left sitting there with the card still clutched in her hand. She recognizes the look on Rachel's face, she realizes as she looks back down at the florist's elegant cursive handwriting.

It's regret.

 _"Maybe damaged goods are your thing."_

She can still feel the words on her lips, feel the kiss that warmed her all the way to her toes. She can feel Jackson's soft hands running over her body, and one things for certain. She has to see him again or she'll wind up looking at someone just like Rachel looked at her.

"Millicent!" Brooke yells for her assistant, who comes bounding through the front door like a bat out of hell.

"Is everything okay? I heard the crash and saw Miss Gattina and I assumed..."

Brooke doesn't waste time, holding her hand up and interrupting her assistant. "I need you to find out where Jackson Avery's having dinner on Friday night, and I need you to book me a table. Send up maintenance for the mess as well."

"Of course, I'll call them right now." Millie hurriedly responds, turning on her heel and heading towards the door.

Brooke stops for a second, looking up at her assistant over the paperwork in her hand."Oh, and if you ever leak any information about me again, I'll...I don't know what, but it'll be bad." She manages to get out in her frustration.

Millie looks like a deer in headlights. "I swear, I was only doing it for your own good. Besides, Jackson's-"

"Perfect. I know. Everyone keeps telling me that." Brooke says with a somewhat irritated sigh, smiling tightly. "Book the table, and clear that evening and the next morning."

"Why the next morning?"

Brooke smirks, turning around in her chair and facing the glass wall and looking out into the city.

"Because I don't plan on going home alone, and I doubt Dr. Avery does either."


End file.
